able_cain

When Cassandra Cain awoke this morning, on a table near her bed sat an envelope. Nothing extravagant. Minimalist in all appearances, though obviously not purchased from a standard office supply store. The coloring, the thickness in her hands told another tale.

The letter inside was unaddressed, identifying neither author nor recipient. But the penmanship speaks volumes, infinitely more than the simple text inside:

"Gotham Stadium. Midnight."

It is in the handwriting that Cassandra sees the message. The way the letters arc and flow, the way certain ones bend and others are rigid. The pen danced across these pages, it did not merely write on them.

Only one could craft such beauty and art from something this simple. The question was not about who, but what. Cassandra prevents herself from guessing as to a reason. Detective work is not her strongest point. And even if it were, this time it's best not to guess.

When dealing with Lady Shiva, it's best to hold no assumptions.